


Acme

by rabidsamfan



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: A missing scene from The Final Problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xfdryad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xfdryad).



> I have included some links to websites concerning the Gemmi pass where this story takes place at the end.

According to Baedeker, it takes no more than an hour and a half to ascend the Gemmiwand from the baths of Leuk to the Gemmi pass. Baedeker, one may infer, traversed the winding path carved into that massive rock face whilst in the peak of physical condition, with neither exhaustion nor an old injury to confound him. But in those last desperate days of April 1890, as we fled from my inevitable fate, it must be admitted that I was drawing on the dregs of my endurance and Watson, of course, was still fettered by the long ago damage to his tendo Achillis. For all that we began our climb at half past twelve, it was nearer three than two by the time we reached the top of the precipice.

Our guide bade us go a little farther, to an outcropping which had been equipped with seats and a stone wall against the wind for the comfort of those who wished to take in the view. There would be tea, if we would not mind waiting for him to fetch hot water from the shepherds’ hut nearby, he explained, and Watson thanked him heartily. I could see that the boy wished only to spend a few moments in idle conversation with several other lads from the village. They had passed us on our way up, bearing a palanquin, and were now loitering near the hut, in hopes of an invalid or two who might need to be carried down the path for a small fee. I could hardly begrudge him the opportunity, however, and the tea would be welcome. We had left spring below us as we climbed, and beyond the beaten out trail through the pass the barren rocks were still encrusted with snow.

Watson sloughed off his pack before taking a seat and rummaging through his pockets for pipe and tobacco. I took off my own pack and set it beside his, joining him on the crude bench. He offered me his pouch. “We’ll make better time from here, if I’ve read the map correctly,” he said. I nodded, and drew my own pipe from an inner pocket. 

“You invariably read maps correctly,” I told him, and was rewarded by the quick rush of blood to his ears. Watson is modest about his accomplishments, but as pleased as any man when they are acknowledged. He would be less pleased by my next observation, I knew, but the strain of the ascent was showing in the way he massaged absently at the muscles near his knee. “How bad is your leg?”

He took a deeper breath before answering, considering how to phrase his reply. “It’s been worse,” he averred. “But no, Holmes, it would not have been more prudent to hire a litter to carry me up here. I went over the Khyber Pass in a dooley, and I’ve no desire to repeat the experience.”

I chuckled, for it was not often that Watson could turn my trick of mind reading against me, and did not tell him that I had also been considering whether or not it would be prudent to persuade him to descend with the litter bearers. But we had had that argument in Strasbourg and he had been triumphant. “Not a method of travel you would recommend then?” I asked.

“Not unless you enjoy feeling seasick whilst on dry land,” he said ruefully. “I got out of the blasted thing whenever I could manage it.”

“So much for the notion of having the litter boys convey us to our hotel!” I exclaimed, and now it was Watson’s turn to chuckle. 

He patted his leg a final time and stretched it out along the bench. “Give me time for a pipe and some tea and I’ll be all right,’ he said. “We’ve hours yet to go until we lose the daylight, and the guide book puts it at less than two to reach the inn at Schwarenbach. I think we can stop and pretend we came for the view.” 

He waved at the prospect opening out around us, and I turned obediently. It was a magnificent panorama. Our future path led alongside the frozen Daubensee, a dull, frozen footnote to its parent glacier, between the high peak of the Wildstrubel and the lower height of the Daubenhorn on either side. But the true vista lay back in the direction we had come. The village of Leukerbad was a child’s collection of toy blocks two thousand feet below our feet, already half in shadow. Beyond it I could trace the road to Leuk, and Inden, and through the verdant valley of the Rhone, back until the afternoon haze and the knees of the mountains combined to conceal our route from Strasbourg. Like the spring, we had left the trees below us, and above the valley the ranks of the Alps rose unimpeded into the clear blue of the sky, peak after peak. Watson, armed with both map and book, could no doubt list their names, although the only one of the distant snow-laden shapes I could identify with perfect confidence was the Matterhorn. Not a trackless wilderness, no. Men had occupied these lands since antiquity. And yet I felt as if it would take little more than a deep snowfall to wipe away all trace of humanity and leave those cold sentinels triumphant.

“The Hindu Kush was beautiful too,” Watson said, and I glanced at him. He was calmly puffing his pipe, for all the world as if he were sitting in his chair before the hearth at Baker Street and not perched in an Alpine aerie. Our days of walking in the sun had awakened the nut-brown sunburn I remembered from our earliest acquaintance, and the irregularity of our meals had thinned his face enough that it was easier to see the soldier from Afghanistan than the doctor from London. “Not as green below, perhaps, but just as outstanding above.”

“They’re only mountains,” I said, finding the nearer view far more amenable to my mood. How differently my life would have been had that young soldier never stood before me in a laboratory at Barts! I am by nature a lazy sort of fellow and without a companion to goad me into performing, I might have muddled along half-heartedly at my chosen profession for years, thinking myself the best detective in London whilst I idled in my chair. And yet Watson he was never a mere chorus to my histrionics. A whetstone to my mind, a chronicler of my achievements, and more, a friend, such as I had come to believe I would never find, yes, he was all of these, but most importantly another set of eyes by which I could view the world. Even when it came to something so mundane as the landscape. Here, where I saw nothing but stone and ice, Watson clearly saw something more, something which brought a curve to his lips and a peace to his countenance.

“Do you not feel it, Holmes?” he asked, turning that gentle smile to me, his eyes alight with curiosity, for he was always curious about me, and my thoughts. “The way that the mountains and the sky fill your soul until there’s no room left for despair?” 

“I thought it was the chill,” I said, dryly, for the wind was freshening, and I made a show of adjusting the scarf wound round my collar. I have never much cared for the countryside. Truth be told, I would have given my left arm for the cobbles of London beneath my feet and the shouts of costermongers in my ears. “But you are the poet, not I.” 

Watson’s smile broadened. “It’s warmer in July,” he said. “And when you’ve walked long enough in the fresh air, all you can really feel is grateful that your supper is not too far away.”

“Ah,” I said. I made myself busy with my pipe for a moment, considering his words. He could not have crossed the Khyber Pass in July -- General Roberts had not even begun his march to relieve the siege at Candahar until August* -- and it would be a dullard indeed who did not comprehend the significance of the month of July. 

It had been Watson’s custom, prior to his marriage, to commemorate the anniversaries of the battle of Maiwand by falling into a state of inebriation; a comfort he abandoned for the sake of the gentle lady who had agreed to be his wife. Since his marriage, he and Mary attended the dinner hosted by Surgeon Major Preston on the 27th, and then abandoned London, leaving no forwarding address, until the need to replenish his bank account brought them back. I had never enquired about those absences, no more than I had when he sought solace in the bottom of a bottle. But I had wondered where they went. Not the continent, or at least not this part of it. Watson would have mentioned any such travels to me, if only to suggest our route. Wales, perhaps.

“And do you take Mrs. Watson on your scrambles over Snowden?” I asked, thinking of the mountain paths we had traversed thus far. I could not imagine the effort involved would be ameliorated by the addition of skirts. Rather to my surprise, Watson nodded.

“Of course,” he said contentedly. “She leads the way, more often than not. Then again, she was born in the high country. Her father was stationed in the hills at Khajjiar at the time, and her earliest memories are of a trek to Manali.” He looked out over the valley before us, although I believe he was seeing some other view. “Yes. She was born in the mountains,” he mused absently. “And I was born at sea.” 

“Now that,” I interjected, “I did not know.” How could I? And yet the gap in my knowledge of him felt like a task I had failed to complete. 

That brought him back to himself, and turned to grin at me. “You hadn’t deduced it?”

“No.” I pretended to pout. “Although given your fondness for Clark Russell’s maritime tales perhaps I should have. Still, you must admit you haven’t offered me much to work with. You didn’t go into the Navy, despite your nautical nativity.”

He laughed outright at the alliteration, and I was glad to see the worry mark between his brows fade for the first time since Strasbourg. With Moriarty at large the knowledge that our time together was growing short had weighed on us both, and I do not think that my attempts to reconcile him to matters had borne fruit. But he could be distracted, it seemed, and I could indulge my curiosity. Watson thinks me reticent, but that is most definitely a case of the pot discussing the kettle. I only learned of the existence of his brother when that unfortunate person had already ceased to exist.

“Why did you choose the Army?” I asked, for the opportunity might not arise again. “Why not stay in England once you had your degree?”

He shrugged with his good shoulder. “I wanted to see more of the world,” he answered diffidently. “And I thought there was more chance to learn my trade in the Army.”

“How so?” I asked, watching with fascination as his right hand came up to float near his hairline. There are three occasions when Watson fusses at his forelock. When he is preparing to go out, when he is very tired, and when he is lying. “I should think there must be plenty of work in either case.” 

“Yes, but a ship’s surgeon seldom has more expertise than his own to draw upon,” he said, twisting his fingers into his hair and pushing back his hat for better access. “And I wanted to see the world. The sea has its moods, but you must admit the scenery gets monotonous.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “You’re prevaricating, Watson,” I said. “Or at best, reciting reasons you used to justify the decision after it was made” 

He ducked his head, but he was still smiling. “Some day,” he said, shaking a finger at me. “Some day I will discover how you always know when I’m adjusting the truth, and then I’ll get away with it!”

“Doubtful,” I said, and if I was thinking more of my own mortality than Watson’s cleverness I did not elaborate. “Although given our present circumstances I will tell you that you may eliminate ‘has a pen in his hands’ as one of the more salient indicators.”

Watson straightened indignantly. “I only alter the details in my accounts when it’s necessary!” he protested, and then, seeing that I was teasing him, relaxed again. “Well,” he said, “Mostly necessary.”

“And it makes your editor happy,” I finished for him, for this was hardly a new topic of discussion.

He shrugged again. “Unhappy editors don’t pay.” That had been a bone of contention between us at times. But I could hardly begrudge Watson the opportunity to enhance his income, even though I now doubted I would ever have the chance to correct the record with a volume of my own.

“Three stories for the Strand, was it?” I asked, although I knew the answer

“Yes. And more if there’s interest,” Watson said, a frown crossing his features. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

I rested my hand on his good shoulder. “Tell me the truth about why you went into the Army and you can publish a dozen.”

His eyes widened, and his eyebrows shot up, but the way his lower lip vanished between his teeth and the colour rose on his cheeks told me that the story was worth the price. “Ilostabet,” he mumbled, and I raised my own eyebrow until he repeated himself. “I lost a bet.”

“You lost a bet?” Now that I could believe. Watson’s delight in games of chance was the reason I’d kept his pocketbook locked in my desk drawer for years. “How did that lead to the army?”

“Well,” Watson began. “It was like this. I was nearly to graduation, and I didn’t have enough money to purchase a practice. The rich uncle I was hoping would lend me enough to start one had died and proven not nearly as rich as anyone thought, my other relations had all emigrated one direction or another and weren’t in a position to help. I couldn’t use my medical skills to make money, not yet, so I called upon my one other talent and went to play for Blackheath.”

“And that paid well?” Boxing could, I knew, but I had never attempted to play rugby football.

“Not well, but it meant I could learn a great deal about the other teams. And when they played each other, I had a fair notion of who would win. Of course, I never bet on games in which I played. That would have been unethical.”

“Of course,” I said, just to keep him talking. How I wished we were both back in Baker Street, where this tale would be something to share over a snifter of brandy after one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent repasts. I offered Watson my flask, instead, and he took a swallow before continuing.

“One of the people who came to see us play was a retired Sergeant Major, also called John Watson, who had served with the Northumberland Fusiliers. He’d spent most of his life in the Army, and could tell tales about the Sepoy Mutiny that would curl your hair. That John Watson lived with three spinster cousins who had taken him in when his rheumatism forced him to leave the service. He did bet on our games, and there was some confusion over the names that nearly got me kicked off of the team before it was resolved by the two of us standing together before the roster.

“I got to know him, after that, because he also went to the same pub as the players did after a game. For a drink or two he’d tell his stories, and I’d listen, and somehow it came to be a joke that I should go take his place with the regiment, because they needed a John Watson to keep them straight. The whole team was soon in on it, and one night I bet that I could find another John Watson who could take his place instead. It seemed a reasonable wager. It’s not as if my name is Sherlock.” He took a moment to relight his pipe, feigning an innocence I did not believe.

“That would have been more difficult,” I granted, amused, and Watson laughed.

“I’d known three other John Watson’s before I was twelve,” he said. “And another five by the time I was twenty. I thought my bet a sure thing.”

“And wasn’t it?”

“As originally framed, yes. But somehow, by the time we were a few bottles further into our cups, it became that I would find another John Watson who would promise to take his place. And then Rory Thompson poked his nose in and said that it wasn’t any good for me to have my whole life to look for another John Watson when I was clearly going to live much longer than the Sergeant Major, and that he’d undertake to give me a proper incentive. 

“I asked him what would that be, and he said he’d do ‘something impossible’ and when he did I would have run out of time and would have to go into the Army myself. I was quite drunk by then and I said ‘what, are you going to do? Raise a flag on the top of Nelson’s Column?’ “

I threw my head back, the better to guffaw. I remembered that incident, remembered it very well, and the great fuss that followed, with half London thinking it only right that the Admiral had a banner over his head and the other half appalled that anyone would commit such blasphemy as to climb up the column.

“And that,” Watson said, when I’d caught my breath and looked to him once more. “Is why I joined the Army.” He looked over his shoulder toward the shepherd’s hut. “And there comes our tea.”

If he was grateful for the interruption, it did not show, but as we sipped our tea and ate the sandwiches the boy had also provided our conversation turned to minor matters of logistics and the weather. It wasn’t until we were making ourselves ready to go on that I found myself asking, “Do you ever regret losing that bet?”

Watson shook his head. “No,’ he said, scattering the remains of his bread for the tiny birds which had somehow found their way to our small picnic. “How could I? The army gave me as much as it took.”

“How so?”

He cocked his head, contemplating his answer. “You learn things, being in the army. You learn that you can fail, and get back up again. That courage isn’t the same as fearlessness. And you learn from being thrown in with so many kinds of men. You see the ones who always expect the worst, always finding the worst. And you see the ones who anticipate the best always finding it, even if it’s just in glimpses. When I first got to Afghanistan, I thought it was a dreadful, empty place. But I learned to see it differently. To take delight in the small flowers of the desert, and the smiles of the children.” He shrugged. “It’s not all that different than finding London beautiful, if you think about it,” he said. “And there’s less soot in the wild places of the world. It’s all a question of what you want to see.”

I nodded, and turned once more to examine the distant Alps and the valley now deeply shadowed below us. “I suspect a painter would be happy here,” I conceded. “If he could keep his paint pots from freezing.”

Watson smiled at me, and hefted his pack up onto his shoulders. “That’s what charcoal and colored pencils are for, Holmes,” he said, blithely, and turned to go, knowing I would follow.

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> * _Author's other note:_ Yes, I know, Roberts actually took his men and the survivors of the siege to Quetta via the Khojak pass, but Watson says he went to Peshawar, so to Peshawar I have sent him.
> 
> [Google maps version of Watson and Holmes's route in the Final Problem](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Leuk,+Switzerland/Meiringen,+Switzerland/@46.5251608,7.7062153,74491m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m14!4m13!1m5!1m1!1s0x478f19a29042d721:0x2711d57e1e987348!2m2!1d7.6345834!2d46.3169188!1m5!1m1!1s0x478f8fbf1b3561a9:0x7c177406d39c024b!2m2!1d8.1909081!2d46.7251614!3e2)
> 
> [Baedeker's Switzerland 1869 (see page 148)](https://books.google.com/books?id=sj4NAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=snippet&q=Gemmi&f=false)
> 
> [A modern look at the view and the Gemmi pass](http://steverabone.com/more%20swiss%20walks/gemmipass_.htm)
> 
> [Medium difficulty?](http://www.myswitzerland.com/en-us/the-classic-among-classics.html)
> 
> [Why even the sheep can do it!](https://www.leukerbad.ch/adventures/events/summer-events/veranstaltung/?event=gemmi-sheep-procession-gemmi-leukerbad&date_from=2016-09-04&date_to=2016-10-31&topevent=1)
> 
> [But it's...](https://www.trail.ch/gallery/displayimage.php?pid=167)
> 
> [Just a trifle...](https://www.trail.ch/gallery/displayimage.php?album=26&pid=171#top_display_media)
> 
> [steep!](https://www.trail.ch/tour/gemmipass/gemmi.htm)


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